Vices
by Myranda Kalis
Summary: In the calm moments between, and before the next battle, reflections occur. First in a series of introspective character pieces. And a little smut thrown in for good measure.
1. Chapter 1

By day, Edo lived as though each moment might be its last. Which was, he was forced to admit, not that far from the truth.

Somberly-clad women hurried through the narrow streets, arms full of their shopping, ridiculous little paper umbrellas held just so to keep the sun off their skin. Tradesmen hauled cartloads of goods and produce under their own power or that of their apprentices, making deliveries to the walled compounds of those too proud or too impoverished to flee the city, bawling the day's specials on handy street-corners when the bulk of their business was done. There were no real markets any longer, and hadn't been for a long time, only the occasional tiny shop and the opportunistic street vendors that moved from place to place at whim. Open porticoed tea houses and bathhouses, those that remained open, did a brisk business, limiting the numbers of their custom to avoid the malignant attentions of day-hunting predators. Too many people in once place drew the Akuma, like blood drew flies, with predictable results. In some quarters, temple bells rang low and mournful, columns of incense-rich smoke rising skyward a silent testament to the work of the night-hunters. The people of Edo had learned not to let the grass grow under their feet when it came to disposing of the dead. In other quarters, uniformed functionaries bustled about nearly-empty offices, administrating what little existed of civil government: the fire-fighting brigades, the pitifully inadequate civil police force, the corpse removal crews.

There were no children to be found anywhere – not swimming in the admittedly questionable waters of the harbor, not playing rough-and-tumble in the sporadically tended public parks, not dressing up as miniature adults to fly their kites or pose their dolls just so or gaze solemnly upward at a perfect autumn moon on festival days. He, at least, sharply felt the lack, accustomed as he was to the presence of one child in particular. Children, where they existed at all, were kept behind closed doors, were kept protected and silent as best their parents were able. Or they were sent away to relatives living outside the city, or sometimes to the relatives of neighbors, or sometimes to perfect strangers willing to board a healthy child in exchange for work. Mothers-to-be, too, were little in evidence – new human life coming into the world called the more sensitive breeds of Akuma even faster than a large gathering. Sensible women fled before their time was near, giving birth in a stranger's house being preferable to birthing anywhere near Edo. The less sensible ones, their unfortunate newborns, and not infrequently their entire families swelled the nightly tally of the dead.

Sturdy locks on paper-paned doors, blessed incense and ofuda charms and plain steel had little deterrent effect on the average Akuma. They'd learned that years ago, and yet they kept trying. It said something, he supposed, about the nature of hope, and the way the human mind and spirit worked in these people. In his lightest moments, he could even appreciate it for what it was: indomitable courage in the face of soul-crushing fear, of horror no other place in the world felt as keenly and as constantly as this one. He could even admit to admiring it, in a not at all abstract way. Courage was a thing of beauty, especially held up in the face of death and worse than death. Everything they did to affirm their own lives was rendered more heartbreakingly poignant by the fact, by the inescapable reality, that they could all be snuffed out at any moment, by a single monstrous whim.

In his darkest, moments, it made him want to play with them a little – or a lot – depending on the relative monstrosity of his own whims. Fear was beautiful, too, and pain, drawing it out or ending it quickly, the subtle gradations and textures, the ways it could be inflicted and used. A torturous punishment levied for self-serving cowardice. An agonizing reward for selfless compassion.

At the current moment, balanced between extremes, he felt little enough of anything. A part of him – a large part – was sated, drowsy with satisfaction, half-asleep with the pleasant sound of a choked scream still ringing in his ears, the memory of a slender body convulsing in mortal agony under his hands. (An ornate silver button warned in the hollow of his palm, flat inner face etched with a name he couldn't bring himself to think, much less speak aloud.) An even larger part wanted to somewhere, anywhere else or, failing that, drunk enough to tolerate prolonged contact with Debitt and Jasdero, which was very drunk, indeed. Consequently, he was half way through his third bottle of very good, very expensive sake, the consumption of which had furred his nerves to an admirable degree. A cigarette hung at an improbable angle out of the corner of his mouth and he amused himself by blowing the occasional smoke ring through which several slightly tipsy fragments of Tease flittered unsteadily. (No one was more surprised than he to learn that cannibal butterflies have a taste for sake.)

At the current moment, he hated cufflinks and collar buttons far more intensely than anything human and so he disposed of them with extreme prejudice, his sleeves pushed up to his elbows and his front opened halfway down his chest. He couldn't remember what had happened to his hat, but he'd thrown his coat over the artistically arranged, partially mummified remains of the gardener that had attended this particular park, mostly because he wasn't finished enjoying his present mood. Lying on his back in the middle of a largely abandoned park, stretched out on an unswept, unsanded moon-viewing platform with a fresh pack of cigarettes and an as-yet-unconsumed quantity of alcohol at his side, warmed by the sun and fanned by the autumn breeze, he could simply _be_. Loneliness wasn't his favorite state of existence but at the moment it was a tolerable one, compared to the alternatives. The rest of him would wake soon enough, and when he did, he didn't want to be in the company of anything human, blood-drunk hangovers being even worse than normal for everyone in the immediate vicinity. And sometimes he didn't want to be worse than normal, a facet of his personality that, of them all, only Rhode grasped completely. The rest of the family, he thought, rather looked upon his regard for humanity as a particularly noisome and incomprehensible vice, one of many, and he never felt the urge to disabuse them of the notion. Rhode, as vicious by default as he was at his darkest moments, understood him better and he had no desire to let her see through him just now, see the friction between his two minds, see the weary regret and the feeling not unlike remorse and the slow-growing fear he harbored that he showed no one else. He was already too vulnerable to Rhode's unchildish perception, and he quietly dreaded what she'd do with it before all was said and done. Rhode enjoyed hurting things a little too much for his peace of minds.

At the current moment, far from the trickles of human life passing through Edo's heavily depleted veins and from the claustrophobically enclosed environs of the clan's fortress-prison-home, he could admit to himself that he missed his friends more than he ever missed his family. He missed friendly games around the campfire and sleeping two to a blanket under railroad trestles or in fragrant haymows. He missed settling in to dinner pleasantly weary from a hard day's work that didn't involve killing anything or anyone and eating until he couldn't eat any more. He missed staying up far too late to tell stories that they'd all told dozens of times because every town and tavern they passed through made those stories new again. He missed walking until he was too tired to take another step, Eaze on his shoulders whispering that it was just a little further and not to stop. He missed terrible gin and rot-gut wine and the easeful company of the ladies that provided both. He missed singing _badly_ in public due to excessive drunkenness at the turn of the year and waking up the next morning to a breakfast of whisky-sauced pudding to take the edge off and the first snow of the new year.

He missed having a life worth living and people around him worth sharing it with.

Rhode knew that, and he felt the threat of her knowing it as sharply as he'd ever felt anything. A dangerous habit he'd fallen into, letting her that close. She knew he was back, and had let him pass through her doors without challenge, but it wouldn't be too long before she came looking for him. He finished the last of his cigarette and poured the last of his bottle out for Tease to drink. With effort, he convinced his legs that it was time to stand and, more importantly, time to move. Neither the world nor his family would wait for him much longer.


	2. Chapter 2

**Title:** Midnight In the Infirmary of Good and Evil  
**Author:** **nagainaryuuoh**  
**Rating:** PG15 for nonexplicit smut.  
**Word Count:** 1816  
**Author's Notes:** Written for SpringKink: April 2: D.Gray-Man, Ravi/Kanda: Reluctance to submit - interlude in the midst of the war -- Fic please. The author has been bitten by the pseudo-Victoriana stylistic bug recently so please forgive any oddities of diction. Also, this wanted to be longer. A lot longer. I had to whack it over the nose with a rolled up newspaper.

It was a fact well known within the Black Order that Sir Kanda Yuu was Idleness' worst enemy. He was, by nature, fundamentally incapable of enjoying any form of relaxation not forced upon him by circumstances beyond his control. He would not, of his own recognizance, seek out any form of pleasurable activity on which to spend his admittedly infrequent periods of unoccupied time; he did not seek emotionally rewarding companionship with his fellows in any circumstance beyond the execution of their duties; he appeared, from time to time, to even resent the biological necessity of sleep, though admittedly that extreme took a rather special mood to be upon him. In health, he would test himself endlessly, off the battlefield as well as on it, abusing his body to the edges of its endurance and, not infrequently, somewhat past, increasing his own strength by slow degrees. When he was not well, it was usually because he'd been dragged off the battlefield by his Finders or his team-mates in a condition that, applied to nearly anyone else, would have ultimately resulted in a funeral Mass later in the week. On such occasions he was, invariably, kept confined in the infirmary on the strictest orders that the Chief of Operations ever handed down, as much for the protection of the rest of the Order as his own benefit. Kanda Yuu, required by circumstances of any injury up to and including actual death or dismemberment, to engage in a state of recovery from the prone position was possibly the most murderably obnoxious creature on the face of the Earth and saw no reason to moderate his attitude for the sake of others' tender feelings.

His colleagues had, over the years, come to accept these facets of his personality as part of the unshakeable foundation of his character. That did not make them want to kill him any less, thus the Chief of Operations' standing orders with regard to his person. It was thus when, late in the winter, he was carried up the stairs from the transit watercourse strapped to a hospital gurney, swearing that his leg was only a little broken that he should be allowed to walk on his own. The Chief received a somewhat more accurate report upon his condition which made use of the words "it's mostly held on by nervous fibres and stubbornness" and "it's a miracle it didn't fall the rest of the way off on the train ride back Home" and "you'd think he'd have the sense by now" and, shortly thereafter, a visit from the physician in charge of the infirmary's critical care ward, who had uncomplimentary things to say about Kanda's attitude toward the nurses.

Komui called for the confirmation of certain facts, assured all concerned parties that he would take action this time, and went to seek an unsuspecting victim to delegate that responsibility to.

©

When they were Home, the Bookman and his apprentice dwelt in an austere suite of rooms adjoining the motherhouse's massive three-storied library, a suite which consisted of one small bedchamber for each and a capacious study/work-room in-between, filled to the rafters with the tools of their trade. It was there that the Chief of Operations found his victim, seated at his desk and labouring with evident concentration on his task, copying a more than slightly faded document from the crumbling papyrus on which it was written to the blank pages of a newer, leather-bound volume. So complete was his absorption that he utterly failed to acknowledge the study door opening and closing behind him, the change in light thus occasioned, and the several polite throat-clearings the Chief of Operations uttered in an effort to attract his attention.

Finally, Komui selected one of the blank books sitting on the shelves, held it even with his shoulder, and, with some regret, dropped it.

Afterwards, he helped dislodge Ravi's pen from the ceiling-beams and mop up the spilled ink, which had unfortunately obliterated much of the morning's work. "I'm sorry I had to resort to such extreme measures, but I have a rather urgent mission for you."

The Bookman-in-waiting blinked at him. "Wait a moment, and I'll get Panda – "

"No, no, no. It's not a mission for the _Bookmen._ It's a mission for _you._" He smiled wryly. "Kanda is in the infirmary again. I take it you've heard?"

"I have. You know, you'd save yourself a lot of heartache if you'd just lock him in his own room when he's like that and let him sulk in peace." Ravi tried, with limited success, to get all the ink off his fingers.

"I know. But if we didn't occasionally force him to suffer human contact, he'd never get any otherwise." A pause. "He is, however, making himself exceptionally obnoxious to the nursing staff this time around and I'm afraid he can't be moved. His leg is healing the damage it sustained but the physician thinks it best that he remain in traction so it can continue to do so without him attempting to hurry the process along by refusing to defer to the demands of his own body."

"Not a bad idea that. So what do you want _me_ to do about it…?"

©

It was close to midnight and, even in the critical care ward of the infirmary, the gas-lamps had been lowered, the best to allow the patients confined therein to sleep. Or, in the case of Kanda Yuu, to lie in a bed not his own and stare blankly at the ceiling, perfectly awake to the point of being incapable of even feigning sleep, nearing madness of the pernicious combination of boredom and restlessness gnawing at his mind and body. He had read every book in the infirmary's own tiny library at least six times. He had counted all the individual cracks in the plaster of the ceiling (six) and all the knots in the wooden panelling of the room's walls (one hundred ten) and he was, at that moment, almost feeling weak enough to regret speaking so harshly to the nurses, because even idiotic gossip and pointless chatter would have been better than listening to the sound of his own heart beating and his own breathing and his own bones grinding as they slowly knitted back together. Even meditation could only accomplish so much time-killing. If the clock sitting on his bedside table was correct, it would be another two hours before he would even see another human being.

It was always this way, in the aftermath of a serious injury: eventually, the pain would fade and the weakness occasioned by blood-loss or organ damage or broken bones and torn muscles would go away and the indefatigable restiveness would settle in and it would be all he could do not to _move,_ constantly, whether he wanted to or not. It made even attempting to sleep impossible, kept him awake no matter how exhausted his mind, until his body's internal rhythms recovered themselves enough to admit the need for rest. It made him as irritable as an offended cat and twice as likely to hiss and scratch, again whether or not he wanted to, because there was no way to explain the situation to anyone – or, at the very least, no _good_ way – and the lack of comprehension shortened his temper still further. Not that he ever possessed a long temper. Which was beside the point, for he was completely not in the wrong on this occasion.

He was beginning to wonder if he possessed the flexibility necessary to reach the nearest straps on the traction rigging and the time necessary to gnaw through them and crawl upstairs to his own room before the next rounds when someone knocked softly at his door. The bud vase sitting next to the clock shattered against the doorframe and, an instant later, the door itself opened and admitted a familiar figure, grinning ruefully. "And it's good to see you too, Yuu."

"Bastard," Kanda growled, by way of greeting. "What the hell took you so long? I've been here two whole days."

Ravi laughed out loud, a reaction that completely failed to endear. "I was waiting for you to achieve a proper state of stewed in your own juices and for Komui to actually become desperate enough to grant me permission to sedate you by whatever means I chose."

Kanda growled again, wordlessly this time, and Ravi laughed again, as well, and engaged the lock as he stepped away from the door. He circled close, a wicked glint in his green eye, the smile curving his lips a thing to make Kanda's mouth go dry thinking about all the places he'd rather feel it. He reached out and ran a thumb along the taut cords of the rigging holding that worthless, damnable leg up and extended and quite immovably in place. "…You were really hurt quite badly this time."

"…Yes, I was." Kanda admitted, after Ravi said no more and came no closer. "Though not as badly as Mari probably made it out to be."

"Reckless." That wretched teasing hand slid down off the rig and over his blanketed stomach, hooked at the top of the warm, heavy wool and slid it down, exposing the pyjama-clad curve of his hip. "I probably shouldn't reward you for being stupid enough to almost get your leg blown off."

Kanda absolutely refused to rise to the bait, which he knew from long association was supposed to evoke an outraged sputter or two. "But you will anyway b – because – o – otherwise you'd be – ohgodsyesthere – "

Ravi's lips curved against him and Kanda closed his eyes, let the sensation wash over him, the long, stroking caress of a wildly skilled tongue, the wet warmth of the mouth that closed around him, fingers that knew his body and their business on it very well, indeed. It didn't take long – it seemed to take forever, the teasing bastard, dragging it out as long as he was able – moments like this were never as long as they could be, as long as he wanted them to be, but they were enough. Enough to blunt the edges off of him, enough to drain away the restlessness and replace it without a warm, floating lassitude, enough to make him whimper and beg and moan for more just before more was given. When he came back to himself, Ravi's head was resting on his belly, somewhat awkwardly, and his fingers were tangled in that unruly mess of red hair.

"As I was saying, you will anyway because otherwise you'd be breaking your promise to Komui." Kanda finished, belatedly, and let his eyes close again.

A wordless chuckle was his last reward for the evening.


End file.
